


It's Okay Not to Be Okay

by idkspookystuff



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:28:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idkspookystuff/pseuds/idkspookystuff
Summary: After everything that happened to them, Connor and Oliver are finally free. Free to be whoever they want to, live a life in California where they can do yoga and work and be normal, boring people.Or the one where Oliver tries really hard to be okay.
Relationships: Oliver Hampton/Connor Walsh
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	It's Okay Not to Be Okay

**Author's Note:**

> Wow can you believe I actually remember the password for this account?! Bonkers!
> 
> [My stupid fucking best friend](http://tveitball.tumblr.com) and my mom (no Tumblr link, thank god) forced me to watch s6. I hadn't watched it because I knew it would make me sad and I was right! It did make me sad! So I wrote this to fix it.
> 
> Despite the fact that this is post-cannon, I really feel like I didn't spoil anything. I consider myself the KING of being super fucking vague. Ya welcome.
> 
> There's a little bit of sexual content for, like, one line because it's me and also trans!Oliver because you can rip trans!Oliver from MY COLD DEAD HANDS!
> 
> You can [follow me on Tumblr](http://gorgeousdan.tumblr.com) if you're into bloggers who never post. Hope ya enjoy. Leave your comments and such.
> 
> \- Bee <3

_ Hands, everywhere. At his shirt, at his arms, pushing, pulling him back, trying to keep him away from Connor. “Let me through,” he screams, doesn’t even care when he feels his sleeve rip and a nurse’s hand grabs his bare arm. “You have to let me through! Please! I’m his husband!” _

_ “Mr. Hampton, please, we can’t let you any-” the nurse keeps talking, but Oliver can’t hear anything, can only see, see them taking Connor away, see them placing panels on his chest, attempting to shock life back into him. He had seen Connor at his very worst - mid panic attack, covered in blood, studying for hours without showering - but this, this is so much worse than anything he had ever seen. Connor looks pale. Cold. Lifeless. He looks dead. _

_ Suddenly, all he can hear is the heart monitor they have on Connor. Begs it silently to beep. Just once, just any sign of life from Connor would be hope enough for Oliver, hope that his best friend isn’t gone, hope that he won’t have to deal with all of this bullshit alone.  _

_ But there’s nothing. Nothing but a flat line and the nurse’s hands on his arms and the doctor declaring a time of death. _

Oliver awakes with a start. Connor, very much alive and with his arm slung lazily around Oliver’s waist, doesn’t react so much as he grunts and rolls over in his sleep. There’s only one thing worse than trying to get Connor to sleep and that’s trying to wake Connor up. Still, Oliver’s grateful for his husband’s ability to sleep through a nuclear bombing sometimes.

He presses a hand to his chest and tries to calm his racing heart. He can’t see shit and - he rolls his shoulders and winces, yup - he definitely shouldn’t have slept with his binder on, but Connor’s still alive. He’s still alive and he’s here and he’s away from all of that crazy shit now. It’s in their past.

_ “It’s post traumatic stress disorder,” his fancy therapist said as Oliver stared at a photo of her and her kids, sitting on her desk. “It’s normal after the trauma you went through. Your body needs some time to recuperate. Hey,” she reached for his wrist and his head snapped up to meet her eyes. She’s not horribly unattractive - probably mid-thirties, red hair, green eyes. Probably a weird thing to think in this situation, but whatever. Trauma makes you weird. _

_ “It’s okay not to be okay.” _

Oliver sits up and pulls his shirt over his head. His binder comes off with a little bit of effort and he examines his chest in the mirror. There’s a little bit of bruising under his chest, and when he presses in it’s a bit sore, a bit tender, but  _ whatever _ , he’s dealt with worse. He grabs one of Connor’s t-shirts from the laundry hamper and pulls it over his head. Aside from it being big on him ( _ score _ , thank god for marrying a tall dude who likes gyms), it has the added bonus of smelling like Connor.

He steps out onto their balcony. Perhaps some would find mid-February California too cold for a t-shirt and a pair of boxers but he’s from Philadelphia and, besides, the cold air is refreshing. Helps to clear his mind, help him forget about the nightmares. About all of the shit he and Connor went through before-

_ No. _ He pushes those thoughts from his brain. He’s done thinking about Annaliese and the Keating Five and Philadelphia in general. He and Connor are normal now. Connor’s a civil rights attorney, Oliver’s working an IT job for a start-up. They make coffee in the mornings and do yoga on the weekends. They have a dog. They’re boring. They’re normal. They’re fucking happy, for once in their lives.

Still, sometimes it’s hard to keep everything out of his brain. His own trauma is just exasperated like Connor’s bad nights, like tonight was.

_ His head over the sink, Connor dry-heaved even into the toilet even though Oliver was fairly certain everything that could possibly come up came up hours ago. Oliver rubbed his back as he sobbed, his face pale white, his eyes bloodshot. “I fucked up!” he sobbed, just like the first night he came to Oliver’s apartment like this, broken and pleading for forgiveness. “I fucked up! I fucked up!” _

_ Oliver shushed him. “I know. It’s okay.” It was hard, at times like these, not to say shit like  _ “no you didn’t” _ or  _ “it’s not your fault” _. But Oliver’s had years of experience with Connor Walsh and knows exactly how to handle him. “You’re okay.” _

_ Connor dropped his head into Oliver’s lap, sobbed against his thighs. “It’s not,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, like crying had drained every last piece of him. “It’s not okay. I’m not okay.” _

“Oliver?”

Oliver jumps at Connor’s voice behind him, turns just in time to see Connor climbing out onto their balcony, closing the door behind himself. “Jesus, you shouldn’t be out here without a jacket. It’s fucking freezing.”

Oliver shrugs and turns back to the cityscape in front of him. Watches a couple pass by down below. Wonders what their lives must be like “Didn’t even notice the cold,” Oliver replies as Connor drapes a cardigan over Oliver’s shoulders.

“Don’t pretend like you’re any better than me,” Connor teases. He wraps his arms around Oliver’s waist and pulls him close, so Oliver’s back is matched with Connor’s chest and he can feel Connor breathing. “Why are you up, anyway?”

Oliver shrugs again. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Connor presses a soft kiss to the nape of Oliver’s neck that make shivers go all the way up his spine. “Dysphoria?”

“Nightmare,” Oliver answers. Panic attacks are Connor’s subconscious way of dealing with it, nightmares are Oliver’s. Connor knows that, and it’s his turn to take care of Oliver, now.

“Hm,” Connor mutters under his breath. “It’s okay not to be okay, you know.”

Oliver huffs out a laugh under his breath. “You sound like my therapist.”

“Gross,” Connor answers, to which Oliver laughs again. Connor tilts Oliver’s head towards him so they can kiss. Oliver turns in his arms, feels Connor’s arms trace up his back, feeling for a binder. Oliver’s never confronted him about the fact that he knows Connor always checks for his binder. He thinks it’s sweet; the way Connor looks out for him.

Connor pulls back from the kiss and leans his forehead against Oliver’s, quirks his lips up in a cocky smile. “You ever do that with your therapist?”

Oliver can’t help himself, he smiles back. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he quips back, and then he catches Connor’s lips in another kiss, deeper this time, but still slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world for each other. And they do, now. In their own little corner of the world, in the dark of night, it’s just them, just Connor and Oliver, nothing else.

Connor’s hands dip into Oliver’s boxers and Oliver lets him. They deserve this. They deserve to be a little young and dumb, to fuck on their balcony in the middle of the night if they want to, no fear of anyone watching. Still, Oliver checks over his shoulder, as if Xavier might be somewhere, watching them, waiting to kill Connor or him or-

“Hey,” Connor says, breaking Oliver out of the destructive cycle of thoughts. “You’re okay. Just relax. I gotchu.” He presses a thumb to Oliver’s clit and rubs in soft circles. Oliver gasps, drops his head against Connor’s shoulder, immersed in his scent, his heartbeat, his breathing, drunk off of everything that is Connor. Connor presses a kiss to the top of Oliver’s head and his chest rumbles when he says “I gotchu” once again.

It doesn’t take long for Oliver to come. T makes him horny and, besides, Connor knows how to get Oliver off, knows every inch of his fucked up body better than Oliver knows himself. Within a few minutes, he’s gasping against Connor’s neck, pushing against his hand, his breath coming out in high pitched gasps that sometimes leave him wondering if the T is even working at all. Connor works him through it with gentle reassurances, (“ _ that’s my boy. Good boy. Let it all out for me. I gotchu. Good boy _ ”), works him until Oliver has nothing left to give and then he pulls away.

Oliver reaches for Connor’s erection, but Connor gently swats his hand away. Oliver looks up to meet Connor’s eyes and Connor smiles. “Don’t worry about me. This was me taking care of you.”

In the early days of their relationship, Oliver was afraid he was too reliant on Connor. That it made him weak, girly to let Connor take care of him. But he knows better now. Connor takes care of Oliver and Oliver takes care of Connor. That’s how a marriage is supposed to go. They take care of each other.

Besides, now that Oliver’s had an orgasm, he feels the weight of a sleepless night on his shoulders. Connor can tell (of  _ course _ he can) and he gives Oliver a soft little smile as he wraps his arm around Oliver’s shoulders. “Jesus. You conk out earlier than a cis guy,” he teases. He turns Oliver and opens the door, leads him back towards the bedroom.

Before Oliver walks inside, he takes one last look at the couple in the street. So maybe they haven’t been through what he and Connor have been through, but they’re no better than Connor and Oliver. Everything in their lives has made them stronger as a couple, has brought them together. They take care of each other. They might not be okay, but they have a normal life. They have a beautiful home, and a dog, and the California air, nice even in the middle of the night in February. They have each other. 

Oliver latches the door closed and joins his husband in bed. They’ll be okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 comment = one email to Pete Nowalk asking for a hug for Connor.


End file.
